Part 15

The discovery that she had made one grand, imperishable mistake stunned her: the savagery of the penalty she was to pay made her soul blench: but the ghastly, mocking irony of poor Bob’s solicitude cut like a cold, wet lash. Foul tongue in cheek, the spirit of Satire was possessing his honest heart. Beneath this hideous influence, thought, word and loving deed emerged grotesque, cross-gartered. He ushered some tender travesty with every breath. The eager pride with which he strove to make Fate split its sides tore at Ann’s heart. It was pathetic—with the pathos of the dying dog that whimpers to think it cannot rise to make its master sport. And just because it was so heartrending he could not possibly be told. Blow, lash, claw had to be suffered unflinchingly. He—he could not be told.

As for her love——

Ann put a hand to her head, as though to focus the truth.

Her passion for Bob was gone. The flax was not even smoking. The fire had been quenched.

Ann felt cold with shame.

Bob had been so fearful, and her love had cast out his fear. He had never doubted her love, but only whether that love could survive the strain. And she had fought to convince him, till he had been convinced. He believed heart and soul in its ability . . . heart and soul. . . . And now—Bob had been right. Her dauntless love had not endured eight hours—_not eight hours_. . . .

Of course she hadn’t appreciated. There had been a misunderstanding. She had assumed——

The excuses leaked like sieves. The truth poured out of them.

_It was she—she only that was to blame._ She hadn’t thought of all this. Her father had. So had her aunt. So even had Bob—poor, weak, unsophisticated Bob. With tears in his eyes, he had begged her not to smash his life; and she had smiled and kissed him and smashed it and smashed hers too.

The Sting of Death sank to a pin-prick, the Victory of the Grave to an unfinished game—beside the horror of the fare which Life was serving.

It seemed, indeed, that she was to be spared nothing.

Bob returned beaming. His wooing of the cabman had prospered, for, as luck would have it, the latter was in a holiday humour. He had been upon the point of returning to his stable, and ‘Pier View’ was on his way. He would drive them for nothing. He was, as Bob put it, ‘a proper sport.’ It soon appeared that he was a wag also.

In these circumstances it was most natural that his consent to oblige a pal should automatically promote him to the standing of a familiar. He celebrated his elevation heartily by a series of jocular allusions to nuptial bliss and intimate reminiscences of his own union, by tying a posy to his whip and desiring lustily to be informed of the shortest way to the Abode of Love.

The bystanders roared.

Encouraged by this reception, he stopped outside the station, and acquainting a policeman with the facts, begged the loan of his white gloves, his own, as he explained, ‘bein’ put away by me valet wiv me ’untin’ things. You know wot these servants are, officer.’

He was really extremely funny.

For the rest of the way he contented himself with a lively and affectionate communion with Lady Ann’s trunk—an effort which, to judge from the scandalized shrieks of mirth which followed them, went very well with such pedestrians as they passed. Indeed, their progress was triumphal.

Bob enjoyed it thoroughly, as one enjoys being rallied upon a possession of which one is justly proud. He was all sheepish smiles. Ann was all smiles, too. Her face ached with the strain. Every nerve in her body was squirming. She was upon the edge of hysteria.

“God knows . . . I must . . . _Nothing_. . . .”

Satire spat upon his hands and laid fresh hold of her tail.

Upon arrival at ‘Pier View’ it proved unnecessary for three several reasons, all of which were evil, to ring the front-door bell. In the first place, they did not and were not expected to use the front door. Secondly, a small boy, who was at once wearing a tight green blazer and dirty flannel shorts, swinging idly upon the area gate and contemplating the seething pageant of pleasure-seekers under the comfortable auspices of a generous complement of butterscotch, took one look at husband and wife and then fell down the steps, bellowing, “’Ere they are!” Thirdly, the little knot of passers-by which would long ago have collected, had the equipage but halted, began to give the driver an appreciative hearing.

Bob was out of the fly and stooping to set Ann’s dressing-case by the area gate; as he turned, the small boy reappeared, followed by a large business-like countenance which gave the impression of being able to look extremely unpleasant but was at the moment wreathed in winning smiles; flanking this, rose two other feminine faces, open-mouthed, peering—one fat, snub-nosed, jolly-eyed; the other discontented and pinched; the little knot of bystanders was swelling into an obstruction; the cabman was relating an anecdote which pointed the wisdom of the removal of boots before retiring. . . .

Ann saw it all as in an ugly dream.

It occurred to her that the train-journey and this were but the prologue—the induction to the play she had commanded, the devilish comedy in which she was to play the lead. The induction had been startling, but the play . . . The play was to be the thing. Of course. Plays were. The prologue was nothing. So far she had hardly appeared. When the curtain rose on the play . . . She found herself wondering if there would be an epilogue.

Suddenly, with a frightful shock, she realized that the curtain was up, that the stage was waiting . . . _waiting_ . . . that this—was—her—cue. . . .

_Crowd laughs at cabman’s sallies. Aunt Harriet and the girls reach the top of the area steps. Bob is busy with her trunk. Gramophone next door starts ‘YES! We have no bananas.’ Cabman stops his discourse, listens intently, and then says, ‘’Ark! The ’erald angels sing.’ Crowd yells with delight._ Enter _The Lady Ann Minter. . . ._

Ann pulled herself together and got out of the cab.

Then she turned to the driver and put out her hand.

“Thank you so much for bringing us,” she said most charmingly.

It was a fatal gesture—because it was the act of a lady.

The laughter snapped off short: the grins faded: the genial atmosphere stiffened with a jar.

The cabman’s assurance fell from him like a shirt of mail. His drollery collapsed before a mountainous wave of respect.

He took off his shabby hat and touched the slight fingers.

“Thank you, m’m,” he said humbly.

Amidst a gaping silence Ann turned to the steps.

She could hear the breathing of the bystanders, feel their resentful stares burning her face. She had spoiled sport, embarrassed, turned the frolic she should have led into a ceremony they could not follow. She had drawn the whip of her superiority, flourished it, laid it across their shoulders. Only the gramophone continued to spout its ghastly pleasantry, like a clown mouthing in a death-chamber.

‘_We’ve broad beans like BUN-ions, cab-BAH-ges and HON-ions . . ._’

Before this master-stroke of Satire Ann could have burst into tears. She had striven wildly to rise to the occasion, only to shatter—to let the whole thing down. . . . The awful hopelessness of her position flamed. Envy, Hatred and Malice, then, had been appointed her equerries. Not only was she to suffer: she was to cause suffering, breed discontent, induce ill-will. The efforts which she must make were doomed before they were made not only to fail but to turn to her condemnation. And she could do nothing, because there was nothing to be done. She had sold her birthright, but she could not sell her birth. Her style, her speech, her plumage could not be doffed. She was a peacock in daw’s feathers—and the daws would fiercely resent her condescension.

‘_But YES! We have no bananas. . . . We have no bananas to-day._’

‘Would resent’? _Were resenting. . . ._

As she crossed the pavement—

“Oh, ’aughty,” said someone. “Sten’ beck fer the Lady Ermyntrude.”

There was a stifled giggle.

Her face flaming, Ann stepped to her hostess, who was palpably intoxicated with the prospect of communion with her guest and determined unmistakably to adorn a plane upon which lack of opportunity alone had hitherto prevented her from ambling. It was important that her new niece should at once appreciate that there was not the slightest necessity for her to step down. Here and now she must be made to realize that her aunt was fully qualified to step up.

Out went her hand chin-high.

“’Ow-de-doo, Lady Ann. Pleased to make your acquaintance. I ’ope you aren’t very fatigued, but it’s so ’ot for travellin’.” She turned to rend the bystanders. “Stare a bit ’arder, won’t you? An’ where’s your kemp-stools? Albert, ketch up that dressin’-case before it’s pinched.” The small boy sprang to do her bidding. “An’ don’ beng it on the steps. Come in, Lady Ann.” She began to descend, driving the girls before her. “I ’ope you left ’is lordship well.”

“Very—very well, thank you,” stammered Ann.

“Oh, I’m gled of thet,” said Aunt Harriet ecstatically. “It’s so nice to think of one’s deer ones——” She swung round to glare at the railings. “Albert, go back an’ see who threw them srimps. . . . ‘Orrible, vulgar brutes!” She stood fairly heaving with rage. “Reelly, the people that comes to Suet nowadays, Lady Ann—well, I don’t know where they was born. I didn’ know there was such people. Push you as soon as look at you. Reelly, one’s better at ’ome. Walkin’ out’s no pleasure at all. But come in, deer. Come in an’ meet the girls.”

She guided Ann through the passage and into a parlour.

The table was laid for a meal and there were covers for eight.

Standing uneasily together as though for protection were the two girls and two young men.

The sour-faced girl was adopting a nonchalant air. Hand on hip, eyebrows raised, lip curled, she sought self-consciously to veil her self-consciousness. Her jolly-eyed sister appeared to be upon the edge of hysteria. Her face was set in a nervous frozen grin, her hands were twitching, her eyes riveted upon the floor. The youths were, if possible, still less at ease. Both were tall and weedy. One was dark and throaty—a quality which his belief in a tennis-shirt Byronically open at the neck, with the collar carelessly arranged above that of his coat, served to accentuate. His long hair was unparted, oiled and brushed straight back. Two inches of close-cut side-whisker and an amazing length of finger-nail argued æsthetic tendencies which the soulful expression of his sallow face was intended to declare. He gave the impression of being able to groan efficiently. The other had a jaunty, more worldly air. His tiny moustache was waxed, his fair hair parted in the middle and curled into twin horns. He was clearly conscious of his superiority and, that there might be no mistake about it, was languidly sucking his teeth. His collar—a soft creation of broad black and white stripes—his red and chocolate tie, the golden kerchief flowing from his breast-pocket showed that he knew how to dress.

“These are me daughters,” explained Aunt Harriet, “an’ their gentlemen-frien’s. May . . .”

The sour-eyed girl advanced and shook hands—then turned, flushing violently, to toy with a book.

“Ada.”

The jolly-eyed girl gulped, giggled, started forward, missed Ann’s hand, tried again, clutched it anyhow and withdrew.

“Mr. Barnham.”

The æsthete thrust forward, stumbled, bowed over Ann’s fingers and turned confusedly away.

“Mr. Alcock.”

Mr. Alcock delighted in showing how things should be done. Here was a brilliant opportunity of at once asserting his superiority, astonishing Ann, who would be thankful to find such unexpected _savoir-faire_, and dispelling any skulking idea that to carry off such an encounter was beyond his powers. He stepped forward briskly.

“Pleased to meet you, indeed,” he said warmly. “’Ow’s Piccadilly?”

It was a difficult question to answer.

Before Ann had found a reply, there was the appalling explosion with which laughter which has been denied its usual channel forces the narrows of the nose. The strain had been too great. Nature had asserted herself. Ada had broken down.

Before her relatives’ horrified gaze, she abandoned herself to succeeding paroxysms of mirth, to which, to his undying shame, Mr. Barnham began sniggeringly to subscribe.

The devastation of gentility was too awful.

Mr. Alcock blenched, recovered, turned slowly purple and broke into a gleaming sweat. Ann regarded him as though fascinated. Two red spots of dishonour burned upon May’s cheekbones. Aunt Harriet was making a rattling noise. . . . All the time convulsion after convulsion shook the destructive to her foundations. And Mr. Barnham shook also.

“_Aida!_”

The rasp in her mother’s tone brought her up short. The former was glaring unutterably.

As her daughter’s abominable emotions began to subside, Aunt Harriet turned to her guest.

“Hoverwrought,” she said in the tone of one who is publicly excusing whom she intends privately to flay alive. “Takes after ’er father. Shell we go upstairs, Lady Ann? I’m sure you’ld like to take a look at your room, an’ we can ’ave a quiet chat.”

“I’ld love to,” said Ann.

As she came to the door, she glanced round.

Mr. Alcock had slunk to the window and was savagely employing a service-dressed brother of the golden kerchief. Ada, red-nosed and bloated with exertion, stared blearedly upon the ground. May was regarding the cornice with smouldering eyes. Mr. Barnham appeared to be about to prophesy no good, but evil.

“So—so long,” said Ann pleasantly.

The others stared back.

“Me deer,” said Aunt Harriet, labouring up the stairs, “I want you to feel that this is a nome from ’ome. Merriage is a wrench. One leaves a lovin’ ’ome for a strange country. An’ you do feel strange. I remember me own merriage. Down we goes to a little one-eyed place with never a soul as knew wot a lady was. I tell you I felt that lonely I could ’ave cut me throat. But you’ve no call to do that. You’re among frien’s ’ere that feels as you do an’ likes the ways you like. I give you me word, Lady Ann, vulgarity makes me sick. An’ there’s so much of it to-day.”

Arrived at a door upon the first floor, she opened it and passed into a large, dingily furnished bedroom facing the sea. The brown wallpaper was bruised and soiled: the threadbare carpet was overlaid with cheap rugs: a voluminous muslin valance swaddled the dressing-table: wardrobe, washstand and bed recalled the several sale-rooms whence they had come: a rusty horse-hair couch sulked in a corner: spotted engravings of Royalty being baptized or married or churched hung upon the walls: a cord of one of the Venetian blinds had broken, and the slats were splayed: a window of the bay was open and admitting something of what seemed to be the uproar of a gigantic fair.

“There,” said the proud hostess, mechanically laying folded hands upon the abdominal wall. “Simple, but tasty. I remember so well the firs’ time the Countess of ’Ampshire was ’ere. ‘Mrs. Root,’ she says, ‘people ’as an idea that we titleds must ’ave display. Completely wrong. Now, my bedroom at ’Assocks is jus’ like this—quiet, but distanggy.’”

“It’s delightful,” said Ann, looking round. “I—I don’t feel strange at all.”

“Couldn’ if you tried,” was the triumphant reply. “It’s so—so res’ful.” She sank on to a chair. “An’ now, me deer, make yourself at ’ome. This is your private room in ’Oliday ’Ouse.”

“You’re very kind,” said Ann.

“Don’ mention it.”

The abrupt injunction was disconcerting. It was not meant, of course, to be obeyed. On the contrary. . . . After searching desperately for words with which to flout its blunt authority—

“I—I wonder where Bob is,” faltered Ann. “If I could have my dressing-case . . .”

“Now, don’t you go makin’ any toilet,” said Aunt Harriet. “We’ll be goin’ out presently. Not that I don’t like changin’,” she added hastily, “because I do. But Tom—my husban’s that slack. In course I’m afraid I’ve fell away, but there you are. Where’s the good of me makin’ meself tidy, when ’is idea of dressin’ is to take ’is collar orf?” She sighed heavily. “But there, there,” she added. “We all ’as our crorse to bear.”

“Well, I’ll just wash my face and hands,” said Ann. “One gets so dirty in the train.”

“Just as you please,” said her hostess. “I’m afraid it’s waste o’ time—the pier’s that filthy—but it’ll freshen you up.”

She fought her way past the dressing-table and thrust her head out of the window.

“Albert,” she yelled.

“’Ullo,” rose the small boy’s voice.

“Don’t say ’Ullo’ to me,” snapped Aunt Harriet.

“Whatsay?”

His great-aunt drew in her breath.

“Where’s Bob?” she demanded.

“Gone to ’ave a drink with the driver.”

“Well, leave that there trunk an’ fetch up Lady Ann’s dressin’-case.”

“Whatsay?”

Albert’s inability to hear unwelcome tidings was a maddening complaint.

His great-aunt looked volumes.

“You ’eard well enough jus’ now,” she said in a shaking voice.

“Bob tole me to wait ’ere.”

“An’ I tell you to fetch up Lady Ann’s case.”

“Whatsay?”

Aunt Harriet left the window and erupted from the room.

Albert put the road between himself and ‘Pier View.’

Ann took off her hat and flung herself face downward upon the bed. . . .

“Why didn’t I think of all this? _God knows._ How can I possibly bear it? _I must._ What shall I do—do? _Nothing._”

It occurred to Ann suddenly that it was all intensely funny. The comedy of the situation was rich. Albert—Aunt Harriet—Mr. Alcock alone would have brought down the house. Surely, her sense of humour . . .

Somebody laughed—wildly.

Ann perceived that here was another of Satire’s subtleties. Nothing so obvious as tragedy was to be her portion. She was to be tormented by a roaring farce—a farce that was founded on tears and broken dreams and all the cureless agony of passionate regret. It was the Dance of Doom, if not of Death.

When Aunt Harriet reappeared, lugging the dressing-case, she was manifestly conscious that, but for her guest’s whimsy, she would have been spared great provocation, distasteful exercise and—most important of all—a menial task. She certainly managed to smile, but it was a crooked business. She felt that her mask had slipped.

So soon as Ann was ready, the two descended—thoughtfully. The ladylike bond of union which Aunt Harriet had forged seemed to have stretched. All Ann’s efforts to contract it but served to emphasize its slenderness.

Mercifully, Bob was in the parlour, exchanging cheerful reminiscences with a jolly, fat man who proved to be Uncle Tom.

Her husband presented Ann, with shining eyes.

For a moment the fat man looked at her. Then he inclined his head.

“Your servant, me lady,” he said respectfully.

“Rot,” said Ann. “You’re my uncle,” and kissed him then and there.

“Oh, you peach,” said her uncle, and kissed her back. With his arm about her, he addressed the rest of the company. “Jus’ leave us alone a few minutes, will you?” he said. “There’s one or two ’ymns we want to run over together.”

This allusion to a recent scandal in which a local pillar of the nonconformist church was involved naturally evoked great merriment.

Ann tried to be thankful.

It also inspired Mr. Alcock.

“Break away, break away, there,” he cried.

Uncle Tom screwed round his head.

“Percy, me lad,” he said, “you ’aven’t a chance. This little girl likes ’em fat.”

Squeaks of delight contributed to another explosion of mirth.

They sat down to tea hilariously. . . .

“Do you ’unt at all?” said Mr. Alcock, presenting a dish of shrimps.

“I’ve given it up,” said Ann.

“’E means by night,” said Uncle Tom.

The laughter was renewed.

“Oh, give over, pa,” wailed Ada. “You’ve give me the ’iccups.”

It was too true.

Seats were left: remedies were commended: the victim was conjured—to no purpose. Spasm succeeded spasm with sickening regularity.

“’Old your breath,” said Bob.

Ada inspired and sat like a graven image.

The others watched her in a silence pregnant with expectation.

Her eyes began to protrude. . . .

“Stick it,” said Bob. “Stick it.”

A dusky flush began to steal into her face: sweat gathered on her brow: she was squinting. . . .

At last she let her breath go with a loose rush.

For a moment she breathed peacefully. Then a belated spasm convulsed her frame.

There was a rustle of consternation.

Suddenly, with a blood-curdling roar, Mr. Barnham smote upon the board.

In a second all was confusion.

Ann started to her feet: Aunt Harriet screamed: May recoiled against the wall: Bob and Mr. Alcock regarded their compeer open-mouthed: Uncle Tom, who had been in the act of drinking, was coughing and cursing and wringing tea from his moustache.

What was more to the point, Ada stopped hiccuping.

When Mr. Barnham pointed this out, the fact was coldly received.

“Enough to make anybody stop anything,” snarled Aunt Harriet. “Don’t you know ’ow to be’ave?”

“In course I do,” said Mr. Barnham. “You never see me do that before.”

“No, an’ don’t you never let me see you do it again,” was the tart reply. “Nasty, vulgar ’abits.”

“But I done it to stop ’er ’iccups,” protested the ill-used youth.

“I don’t want to know why you done it,” observed his hostess. “You done it—an’ that’s enough. You oughtter be ashamed of yourself. . . . May, give Lady Ann a cut of beef.”

With goggling eyes, Mr. Barnham proceeded in some dudgeon to the consumption of a hunk of dry bread, presumably with some vague idea that this mortification of the flesh would stimulate a recognition of his injury.

Conversation revived.

Mr. Alcock spoke of sport, commending the pursuit of lawn tennis with the air of one who has tried everything and come to the reluctant conclusion that that pastime is a better antidote to _ennui_ than any other.

Uncle Tom recounted a dispute which had arisen in the saloon bar of _The Goat_ regarding elephantiasis. His narrative slid naturally enough into a vivid comparison of such cases of this complaint as had come under his notice or that of the other patrons of the saloon bar. Aunt Harriet, even more naturally, proved able and willing to supplement his list with personal experiences so distressing as to suggest that an inscrutable Providence had chosen her among women to be harrowed in this peculiar way.

May related how someone had ‘passed the remark’ that a new char-à-banc service was to be instituted between Suet and Lather, and asked Ann if she was fond of motoring.

Ann replied with enthusiasm.

“I think it’s tremendous fun.”

“D’you ’ave the Blue Fleet in Dorset?”

“I—I don’t know,” stammered Ann. “Do we, Bob?”

“Yes, dear,” said Bob. “That bounder wot ’it your coopy was one o’ the Blue Fleet.”

There was an awful silence.

“Your coopy?” said Uncle Tom.

“Er, yes,” said Ann desperately.

“Nice, tight little car, too,” said Bob. “Wish I could give ’er one now.”

“A.C.?” ventured Mr. Alcock.

“‘A.C.’?” said Bob. “Forty-fifty Rolls.”

There was another silence.

“Must ’ve bin delightful,” said Aunt Harriet shakily. “Still, there’s things beside cars.”

“Rather,” said Ann heartily.

“Such as wot?” said Uncle Tom.

“Well, all isn’t gold as glitters,” snapped his wife.

“That’s true,” said Mr. Barnham sagely.

“Woddyer mean?” said his host. “Wot’s true? A Rolls moter coopy’s good enough fer mos’ people.”

“Well, an’ who said it wasn’t?” said May.

“Look ’ere,” said her father. “Your mother said there was things beside cars.”

“So there is,” said May. “Fine clothes an’ fine relations.”

She laughed spitefully.

“Shut up, May,” said Ada. “She never said she ’ad a coopy. It was Bob wot started it.”

“That’s right,” said Bob, red in the face. “I said it, an’ where’s the ’arm?”

“No ’arm at all,” said his aunt silkily. “If the troof was known, I spec’ she ’ad two or free cars.”

Her husband suspended mastication and stared at Ann. Then he spoke through the cud.

“Didjoo?” he demanded.

“No, indeed,” said Ann swiftly. “I think I was jolly lucky to have one.”

Uncle Tom nodded approval.